


Light of Lasan

by Findswoman



Series: The Lasan Series [13]
Category: Star Wars - All Media Types, Star Wars: Rebels
Genre: Alien Mythology/Religion, F/M, Lasan, Lasan Honor Guard, Lasat, Lasat Force tradition, Lasat Rituals, Mild Hurt/Comfort, Religion, Rituals, Romance, Stress
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-07
Updated: 2019-10-18
Packaged: 2020-11-26 13:14:41
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 17,932
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20930813
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Findswoman/pseuds/Findswoman
Summary: Two young betrothed Lasat—a shaman and an Honor Guard officer—unexpectedly find themselves with important roles to perform at one of their homeworld’s most important ceremonies, and both encounter stresses and setbacks as they prepare. Started 2017 (first five chapters) and finished 2019 (sixth chapter).Thanks to Raissa_Baiard for beta-reading and collaborating on the fanon that went into this; for details on various fanon elements and customs referenced throughout, please see our jointly writtenLasat fanon post. For detailed explanatory notes on each chapter, seethe posting of this story at boards.theforce.net.





	1. Chapter 1

High on the summit of Mount Straga, the tallest and grandest of the mountains that dominate the northern hemisphere of Lasan, a young second-degree shaman sat in her study chamber at the Royal Lasat Academy of Shamans, engrossed in the study of her people’s ancient tomes. For many weeks now she had spent her days there in study and meditation, busily preparing for her advancement to the first degree of Lasat shamanism.  
  
The text before her was one of the central prophetic works of her tradition, as foundational and essential as it was arcane and convoluted. She had been poring over it since early morning, engaging with its archaisms and intricacies in a regular cycle of reading, note taking, and meditation. But now that the gold-purple tinge of evening was beginning to creep over the sky, her mind was beginning to wander, and the words on the page began to blur together. _The ancient homeworld… the Fool… the Warrior… or something..._  
  
She found her eyes wandering, too, away from the book and over to the large, unusually shaped dark red-purple crystal, shot through with gold striations. that stood on one corner of her desk. It was almost half again as large as her hand and was shaped almost like an irregular cup or shell surrounded by crystalline projections. Beneath it, weighted by it at one corner, was a flimsiplast-printed holoimage. Placing a length of ribbon horizontally across the page to mark her place in the dense text, she took the holoimage gently from under the crystal and looked at it.  
  
It showed a handsome young military officer in the armor and uniform vest of the Lasan High Honor Guard. His eyes were bright leaf-green, his sideburns and beard were neatly trimmed, and he hefted in his strong, striped arms the traditional weapon of the Honor Guard—a Lasan-Malamut AB-75 bo-rifle. The young shaman spent several moments gazing on this image, then turned it over to read the words scrawled on the back:  
  
_MY DEAREST SHULMA I miss you so much the Southern Plateaus are boring as all getout the new ration packets make me retch and I’m gonna strangle Groz if he drops one more of his nasty chewed-up sigarra ends on my bunk but I still think about you every day and can’t wait till we’re together again with all my love ZEB_  
  
A wistful smile brightened Shulma’s face, and a gentle sigh escaped her lips. Yes, this was her Zeb, her soldier, her love—the one who had been courting her for almost eight years, who almost two years ago had presented her with the purple-red betrothal stone that now adorned her desk. That had been just after his first, mandatory tour of duty with the Honor Guard; too soon afterward he had chosen to go on a second, in the interest of advancing his rank. This had come as no small disappointment to Shulma, of course, but she ultimately consented; it would at least give her time to advance in her calling as well, and perhaps to attain the rank of first-degree shaman before marrying. Zeb had promised her they would begin planning their wedding as soon as he returned home—which could be any time between a week from now and an entire dust season from now.  
  
_Ah, my Zeblove!_ Shulma leaned back in her chair, clasping the holoimage to her breast and closing her eyes. She never thought she would fall in love with a military man—when she was younger she was sure she would promise herself either to another shaman or to one of the miners that worked alongside her brothers. Youths from both vocations, indeed, had attempted to woo her early on. But the miner, though hale and strong, had been as dull as the chunks of ore he dug from the ground—and the shaman, though deeply learned, had been a brittle, anemic youth likely to be snapped in half by the slightest wilderness breeze. Zeb, however—a gifted Honor Guard lieutenant—was blessed strength not only of body but also of mind and spirit—a keen wit, a strong sense of honor, and a true thirst for what was right. Not to mention those eyes… those sideburns… that beard… those _stripes_...  
  
She sighed again; she simply couldn’t help it. At least none of her fellow shamans were nearby to see the melt-puddle she had become…  
  
“Well, well, child. It looks like you are very hard at work on the Fifth Tractate of Prophecy. Yes, _very_ hard at work indeed.”  
  
Shulma jumped; the holoimage fluttered to the floor. Standing before her was a diminutive, elderly Lasat female whose white hair was done up in an immense bouffant—none other than the High Shaman of Lasan herself, Chava the Wise, the head of the Academy and the chief of all shamans on Lasan. Immediately Shulma fell to her knees with her head bowed.  
  
“Apologies, Wise Chava… I became distracted, and…”  
  
Chava offered the younger shaman a hand and raised her to her feet. “Oh, no need to apologize, child. Everything you’re feeling I felt once too, you know. And don’t forget your nice holo, now. He’s quite a fine specimen, isn’t he!” She picked up the holoimage and returned it to a deeply blushing Shulma, who immediately refastened one of its corners beneath the betrothal stone.  
  
“Now, I have a task for you,” Chava continued, seating herself on one of the spare chairs nearby. Shulma sat as well. “You know, of course, that the Storm Solstice is approaching in less than a month.”  
  
“Yes, of course, Wise Chava.”  
  
“I have been in consultation with the Consistory, and we have decided to invite you to preside over the ceremony this year.”  
  
Shulma could barely stifle a gasp. The Storm Solstice was one of the most momentous occasions on Lasan’s calendar; it marked the highest point of Lasan’s sun, as well as the beginning of the Dust Season, when dangerous dust storms would begin to ravage the face of the already arid world. Each year, on that day, the shamans of the Royal Academy conducted a lengthy ritual on the Royal Lasat Parade Grounds to invoke the protection of the Ashla during that perilous time of year, and it was considered a great honor to participate in that ceremony in any capacity—let alone as presider. “Me, preside over the Storm Solstice ceremony? But, Wise Chava—”  
  
“Yes, child?”  
  
“I—I haven’t even reached the First yet—and my staff is not yet fitted for a focusing stone—how can I possibly—”  
  
“Be calm, child!” Chava placed a hand on her pupil’s shoulder. “For one thing, as far as I’m concerned, you _have _reached the First. Your knowledge of the sacred lore is already well beyond what the examination requires. For another, it will not be hard to find you a focusing stone. The foundry has a whole cabinet full of them. And for a third thing, there is no rule that says the Storm Solstice presider must be a First. That’s custom more than anything else. The Storm Solstice presider may be anyone the Consistory deems worthy and able. And _you,_ child”—she pointed at Shulma with a long, gaunt finger—“are the one they have deemed worthy and able.”  
  
“I’m certainly honored, Wise Chava, but... do you think I’ll be able to learn all the incantations in time? I have never performed an invocation chant that long before, and so many of them are in the older modes…”  
  
Chava considered this for a moment. “Well, yes, the Storm Solstice chants are particularly long and intricate, that is true... but you have plenty of time to learn them between now and then, child. I think everything will be fine. And everyone loves your chanting.”  
  
Shulma lowered her face, feeling more blushes rise. “Thank you, Wise Chava. I’ll—I’ll do the best I can.”  
  
“I know you will, child. And remember the custom: you are to tell no one outside the Academy about this before the ritual takes place.”  
  
“Of course, Wise Chava.”  
  
“Now I’ll let you get back to your reading and studying. Don’t be nervous, dear one. Remember that the Ashla will watch over you.”  
  
“And you as well, Wise Chava,” Shulma replied, bowing her head.

Once Chava was gone, Shulma skimmed as quickly as she could to the end of her chapter of the Fifth Tractate of Prophecy, scribbled down a few notes, slapped the tome closed, and replaced it on the small bookshelf beside her desk. Then she took from her shelf the standard-issue shamanic chant compendium—a thick, bricklike black volume—and turned to the pages with the incantations for the Storm Solstice festival. They filled more than twenty pages, and most of them were in the more difficult cantillation modes, but she had no choice; she had to start on them now if she wanted to know them thoroughly in time for the Storm Solstice festival.  
  
She had just barely stumbled through the opening invocation when she noticed how low the sun had sunk in the sky. It was at least half an hour later than when she usually left the academy. She would have to hurry home to help her mother prepare the evening meal in time for her father return home from the mines at dusk; tonight her older twin brothers and their wives would be joining them as well, as they always did at the end of the week.  
  
Shulma sprang from her desk, threw on her cloak, and grabbed her bantha-leather satchel from a hook on the wall. For a moment she hesitated about whether to bring the book of chants home with her. Per Chava’s instruction and longstanding custom, she knew it was forbidden to let anyone outside the academy know that she had been chosen to lead the Storm Solstice ceremony. But every extra bit of practice would help—and it was not as though her family would suspect anything. They were all miners and mining officials, and none of them had ever taken any particular interest in her shamanic studies anyway.  
  
Sliding the holoimage into the book to mark her place, she stashed the book in her satchel and headed downstairs to board the funicular that connected the academy complex to the base of Mount Straga. No one else was aboard, so once again she took out the book and tried to work her way through a few more of the Storm Solstice chants. But the rumbling and clattering of the ancient funicular mechanism made it difficult for her to concentrate, so she replaced the book in her bag.  
  
Presently the car reached the foot of the mountain, and she stepped out. No sooner had she done so than she felt strong hands on her shoulders, gently peeling away her cloak, and heard a familiar husky voice in her ear:  
  
“You won’t need this. It’s warm out.”  
  
She spun around, dropping her satchel. Before her was none other than the young officer from the holoimage, who pulled her toward him for a tender, lingering kiss.  
  
“Zeb!—What are you—when did you—”  
  
“No need to sound so surprised!” he chuckled, still holding her. “Weren’t expectin’ me, were ya?”  
  
“Well, I thought it would be at least another half-season or so... when did you arrive?”  
  
“Transport just got in this morning,” he said as he draped her cloak carefully over his own shoulder. “Came as a surprise me too, but that’s life in the Guard for ya… aw, I’ll get that for you, darlin’,” he added as he saw her bending down to pick up her satchel, which he picked up instead. “Karabast, this is heavy! What have you got in here, anyway?!”  
  
“Karabast yourself, _soldier!_” Shulma tweaked Zeb’s beard playfully; he responded with a smirk. “Certainly you’ve heard of _books_ before!”  
  
Zeb eyed the satchel with indignation. “Aw, don’t tell me that old bag gave you _penance reading!_”  
  
“What would Wise Chava give _me_ penance reading for? Forgetting to return books to the reading room? Besides, Zeblove”—she reached up to stroke one of his sideburns with her finger—“you shouldn’t talk about her that way. It’s not polite, you know.”  
  
“All right, all right, if you say so.” Zeb cracked a smile as he slung the satchel over his shoulder. He offered Shulma his arm, and they began to walk together along the track that led through the valley. A lazy afternoon sun was shining on the surrounding slopes, tinting them orange and gold. “So, have they made my wild mountain flower a First yet?”  
  
“Well, Wise Chava says I know the lore well enough, but…”  
  
“But what?”  
  
“Well, it turns out the examinations aren’t going to be held till the week just before Storm Solstice. But Rishla and Yhazi and I have been meeting each week to study, and—” She glanced over at him, noting the pensive look that palled his craggy features. “I know why you’re asking, of course, love. But take heart. It’s only a slight setback, and it won’t be long.”  
  
“Oh, no, no, no, it’s not that at all”—then, hastily correcting himself—“I mean, of course there’s nothing I’m looking forward to more than planning our wedding—but I was just thinkin’, right after Storm Solstice, the Guard will have its expedition to the poles, and if I go—”  
  
“Wait, what? Expedition? What for?”  
  
“Extreme weather conditions training. It would only be for a few months, but—”  
  
“AI GARAZEB AI AVISHAI KH’SA’-NEREZEB-GA’ ORRELIOS!” The ground seemed to tremble at Shulma’s angry utterance as she pulled free from Zeb and stood facing him, eyes flashing. Zeb could not suppress a shudder at hearing the full ceremonial form of his name, including the patronymic usually reserved for shamanic rituals. “You are _not_ going on another tour of duty!”  
  
“B-but Shulma, it’s not—”  
  
“Immaterial, _soldier,_” Shulma growled through gritted teeth. The air seemed to crackle around her. “You’ve already gone on two tours of duty in a row, and it’s taken you five whole years.”  
  
“N-now, that’s not quite right, darlin’…” Zeb’s voice trembled slightly. When Shulma was in moods like this, she always seemed on the verge of calling forth thunder and lightning from the sky—and with her shamanic training she probably really could. “It’s—it’s only been two years, remember?”  
  
“Two years? By which of those fancy Military Academy math courses do you calculate _two years?_”  
  
“I came back from deployment, gave you the betrothal stone, a-and—”  
  
“Yes, you came back for one measly season, gave me the stone, then gallivanted off on your merry way to the Southern Plateaus for two years to ‘advance your rank’ or whatever such. I’ve _had_ it with being apart from you, Garazeb.” She emphasized this utterance with a stamp of her foot that Zeb could have sworn actually shook the ground. “If we’re going to be betrothed, we should act like it.” Then, in a softer voice, as she drew closer to him and slid her hands around his neck: “The stone is nice, but I’d really rather have you.”  
  
“Aw, well, if you put it like _that_—” He leaned downward.  
  
“I absolutely do.” She stretched up into his kiss, and for a moment they stood there together, fused.  
  
“Well, maybe I’ll go some other year,” he conceded, as they separated and resumed their walk.  
  
“That’s more like it, Zeblove.” She nuzzled her head against his shoulder. “Besides, I think your rank is plenty advanced, don’t you?”  
  
“My rank? Well, er—”  
  
“Yes, Senior Lieutenant Orrelios, your rank. You said you wanted to get at least to Middle Lieutenant first. So you are doing quite admirably, methinks.”  
  
“Well, see, the thing is—” Zeb glanced down at the rank pips on the right side of his uniform vest, and as he did his eyes bulged in consternation. “Aw, karabast… just a second…”  
  
“Zeb, what’s wrong?”  
  
“Nothing, nothing…” He had turned aside and seemed to be fidgeting frantically with his vest, occasionally grumbling curses. After a few moments he turned back to Shulma and took her arm in his again.  
  
“There. Sorry about that. Was just… er… straightenin’ my medallion.”  
  
“Straightening your medallion?”  
  
“It was… crooked.”  
  
“Was it, now?” She cocked her head. “Are you hiding something, ai Garazeb? Could it be that you have been—”  
  
“Could it be that I’ve been _what?_” Zeb’s eyes narrowed.  
  
“That your… rank has perhaps changed?”  
  
He spun around, causing the satchel to fly off his shoulder and land on the ground with a _thunk._ “Just what are ya trying to say?!”  
  
“Easy now, darling! Of course I meant changed _for the better!_ Why would I ever for a moment think the opposite?”  
  
“Ah. Well. Right.” His tone calmed as he sheepishly picked up the satchel again. “Look for yourself, I guess.”  
  
She looked at his uniform vest. Adorning the right breast was the customary medallion of the Honor Guard. It was of burnished bronze and showed three crossed bo-rifles flanked by two very stylized rampant konculors, ringed by the motto of the Guard:  
  
PROTECTING THOSE + WHO CANNOT PROTECT THEMSELVES + IS THE BEGINNING OF HONOR +  
  
Below the medallion was an array of rank insignia: a horizontal metal bar, signifying the rank of lieutenant, and below it were four gleaming pips the shape of four-pointed stars, for the specific rank of senior lieutenant. Everything looked exactly as it had in the holoimage on her desk. _And yet she could have sworn she had seen him stash something in a pocket just a moment ago…_  
  
“Well, my mistake, then,” she shrugged at last. “Though, darling, I really must ask you to please be careful with that bag. She really will give me penance reading if anything in there gets broken.”  
  
“Aw, just let her try,” grumbled Zeb as he shouldered the satchel again, and they continued their walk through the valley. The sun was a little lower now, the sky had taken on a gentle bronze shade. Just coming into view ahead of them were the headframes and clay roofs of a mining village: Flowstone Vale, Shulma’s family’s village.  
  
“Say,” Zeb remarked at last, “you never did tell me what’s so special about all these books you’re bringing home.”  
  
“Ah! Well—er—you see—” It was Shulma’s turn to startle at this unexpected question. The sweet surprise of her beloved’s return had banished all thoughts of the Storm Solstice ceremony from her mind. Now, however, it all came crashing over again her like a rockslide on Mount Straga: the intricate ceremonial to be learned, the lengthy chants to be rehearsed, all in less than a month—all in addition to her continued first-degree studies. Worst of all, the custom of shamanic secrecy prevented her from confiding any of this in Zeb. She clutched his arm tighter even as she lowered her face. “Nothing,” she resumed. “It’s nothing.”  
  
“Doesn’t look like nothin’ to me.” He sounded almost indignant. “Out with it, darlin’. Has someone been—” His face darkened with a sudden realization. “Aw, don’t tell me this is one of those ‘shamanic secrecy’ things!”  
  
“As a matter of fact, that’s exactly what it is.” She smiled despite herself. “You know me well.”  
  
“I thought you said the first-degree exam wasn’t like that!”  
  
Shulma sighed. She had not expected him to remember that little detail; no one else she knew outside the Academy of Shamans ever seemed to remember—or care—about such things. It was a sign that he cared, that he had been paying attention all those times she had written about it in her letters to him. And yet it also meant he had a chance of guessing the truth, and thus breaking the mandate of secrecy.  
  
“It’s not, that’s true. But Zeblove…”  
  
“What?!”  
  
“Please don’t worry about me; I’ll manage.” She placed her other hand on his arm and nestled her head on his shoulder. “Just stay by my side and let me cling to you.”  
  
“Aw, that I can do.” He turned and placed a kiss on the gracefully tapered tip of her ear, and they walked on.  
  
By now they were inside the village, strolling down one of its quiet, gravelly roads past squat, sleepy clay-tiled houses. The main headframe, crowned by its five mighty hoisting wheels, loomed in the distance ahead of them. It would not be long before its gigantic lift would deposit hundreds of hungry Lasat miners back beneath the light of the sun—among them Shulma’s father and two elder brothers. At the end of this stretch of road was Shulma’s parents’ house, with those of her brothers and their wives on either side. Zeb and Shulma slowed their pace as they approached, not wanting to end their time together too soon. Once they reached the front porch, they stood for a few moments, hands joined, gazing into each other’s eyes.  
  
“So, till tomorrow, then?”  
  
“Yes, of course,” she smiled. “Just like always.”  
  
“Don’t forget this, now.” Setting her satchel down, he gently draped her cloak back around her—though not before planting a kiss on one smooth, stripe-swirled lavender shoulder.  
  
“Good night, my Zeblove.”  
  
“Good night, sweet Shulma.”  
  
She let him draw her in for one last kiss, and they parted.

* * *

“Oh, _there_ you are, Shulma!” A late-middle-aged female Lasat in eyeglasses and a festively colored dress bustled out of the house to meet her daughter, and they exchanged a brief embrace. “What in the name of the Ashla took you so long?”  
  
‘Sorry, Mama. I was a bit… delayed on the way.” She decided to say nothing yet of Zeb’s return; that would be her own sweet secret for now.  
  
“That’s all right, that’s all right. Now why don’t you put your things down and come help me with this roast. Orli and Vefa will be here any moment with the vegetables, and there’s only about an hour before quitting time at the mine.”  
  
Shulma quickly took her cloak and satchel up her attic room, then went down to the kitchen to help her mother. The rest of the evening went about as she expected: her sisters-in-law arrived and helped put the finishing touches on the meal, her brothers and father returned from the mines, and they all sat down to supper. As usual, the supper conversation revolved around happenings at the mine and the mining office: the week’s ore quotas, a gas leak in northwest shaft number five, the continued malfunctions of the new accounting droid, and assorted bits of gossip about coworkers (“I think Gormdak’s wife is expecting another kit,” announced Chornogar, the eldest brother—which apparently was big news to everyone else). Shulma let it all wash over her in a blur. As the only member of the family who was not in the mining trade, she often felt she had very little to say at such gatherings—but tonight, with her Storm Solstice tasks looming, that came as somewhat of a relief.  
  
Later in the evening, while the others were conversing over ale and geniper liquor in the parlor or out on the porch, she retired to her room, took the chant book from her satchel, and seated herself at her desk. The holoimage of Zeb still marked her place. Opening the book and slipping it out, she gave it a tiny kiss before leaning it against her desk lamp. Then she resumed her chanting where she had left off, directing her soft accents to the beloved face before her.  
  
_to be continued_


	2. Chapter 2

Every afternoon after that, as soon as Shulma finished her day at the Academy of Shamans, Zeb would meet her at the foot of Mount Straga and walk her home. After a long, arduous day of studying for both her first-degree examination and the Storm Solstice ritual, nothing cheered her like seeing him standing there on the funicular platform, waiting for her, spruce and dashing in his Honor Guard uniform. He always greeted her with a kiss, and then they would walk arm in arm through the sunwashed valley, conversing about their day and exchanging pleasantries.  
  
They talked often of their upcoming wedding. It would be about a month after Storms’ End, when the skies would be clear and the wildflowers blooming in the valleys. Shortly before Zeb’s return, Shulma had gone with her mother to look at materials for her wedding gown at the biggest textile depot in Lira Zel, and she reported to her betrothed on her findings (“aw, karabast, darlin’, you’ll look gorgeous in _any _of ’em,” was Zeb’s response). Zeb, in turn, was pleased to report that his grandmother, a cook of immense skill, had offered to organize the feast (“she _has _to make that exquisite fire-pepper sauce of hers!” Shulma insisted). They discussed possible dishes, guests, decorations. As a good Lasat shaman, Shulma almost hated to admit it, but it came as something of a respite from all the mystical lore and ancient prophecies that otherwise occupied her mind. It was during those few fleeting moments with Zeb that she felt the most at ease during her day.  
  
It was always over too soon, of course. Once Shulma arrived home and took her leave of Zeb, she would be right back to the mundane routine of cooking, cleaning, and then—the moment supper ended—yet more studying and chanting. Often she stayed up late into the night, intoning the sacred texts in the dim lamplight while chalking the prescribed ritual schematics on the wooden floor. It was wearing, but she had no other choice if she wished to master the elaborate Storm Solstice ceremonial in time. All the while she kept the holoimage of her beloved officer propped there on her desk. She thanked the Ashla with all her heart that it had chosen this time to return him to her.  
  
And yet…  
  
Each day, she still found herself glancing over at his medallion and insignia, on the off-chance he was going to adjust them again, or whatever it was he had done on that first day. He never did. He, in turn, still winced and grumbled at the extra weight of the chant book in her satchel. She simply shrugged it off with a “sorry, love,” and no more was said.  
  
One afternoon, in the reading room of the Academy of Shamans, Shulma and the two other first-degree candidates, Risha and Yhazi, were engaged in one of the study sessions they periodically held. Rishla had a large tome before her and was asking questions from it. Shulma sat cross-legged on a floor cushion and answered as best she could, now and then closing her eyes to center herself in the Ashla. Yhazi looked on, occasionally taking notes; she and Rishla had already had their turn in the position of examinee.  
  
“All right,” Rishla began. “In which source is the prophecy of the Three first described?”  
  
Shulma inhaled and thought for a moment. “The Second Tractate of Prophecy,” she answered, “but it is not expanded upon in detail until the Fifth.”  
  
Rishla glanced at the book, then back at her colleague. “That’s correct. Anywhere else?”  
  
“A variant version of the prophecy is elaborated upon in chapters sixteen through twenty of the _Stronghold of Prophecy_ of Osthi of Feldspar Falls, though it was relegated to deuterocanonical status by Skoura the Learned in 783.”  
  
“And why was it relegated to deuterocanonical status?”  
  
“Osthi adds the Seer to the Fool, the Warrior, and the Child. Once the Child has saved the Warrior and the Fool, the Seer’s wise teachings are his reward. But Skoura considered the fourth figure superfluous.”  
  
“Right again.”  
  
Yhazi whistled in astonishment. “Karabast, Shulma, you’re really burning this up! The Consistory is going to be so impressed with you on exam day!”  
  
“May the Ashla make that so, Yhazi. I’m so nervous.”  
  
Rishla slapped the book closed. “You didn’t seem nervous just now.”  
  
“Talking to you two about the Tractates of Prophecy and Osthi and Skoura is one thing. Talking to the Consistory about them? That’s going to be quite another.”  
  
“True, true.”  
  
They all got up. Rishla replaced the book on a nearby shelf, then they made their way toward the wing with the individual study chambers.  
  
“So, have you two gotten your Storm Solstice procession assignments yet?” Rishla asked.  
  
“Right-two, incense,” replied Yhazi. “You?”  
  
“Oh, we’ll be next to each other, then! I’m left-two, torch. What about you, Shulma? Shulma…?”  
  
In the process of packing her satchel Shulma had lingered for a moment over the holoimage of Zeb that still acted as a bookmark. She started slightly at the sound of Rishla’s voice. “Oh! Er… what was the question?”  
  
Yhazi tittered. “Caught you sighing over your handsome soldier again. Anyway, Rishla wanted to know if you know your Storm Solstice assignment yet.”  
  
“Ah, yes! Sorry.” Shulma quickly thrust the holo back into the book and the book into the satchel, then paused and heaved a long sigh. “Well…”  
  
“Well, what?”  
  
“Yes, out with it, already!”  
  
“Wise Chava asked me to be the presider.”  
  
The other two women stopped in their tracks, mouths gaping in amazement. “That’s amazing, Shulma!” breathed Yhazi. “But—but don’t they usually have a First do it?”  
  
Shulma shrugged. Shulma shrugged, looking away. She was well aware this was an unprecedented honor for a shaman of second-degree rank, and though she trusted Chava’s discernment, she couldn’t help but have a few misgivings. “That’s what I thought too,” she finally said.  
  
“Still fantastic!” Yhazi wrapped Shulma in a hug. “Congratulations!”  
  
“Thanks.”  
  
Rishla embraced her friend as well. “Oh, Shulma, they couldn’t have chosen better! You’re going to do so beautifully!”  
  
“Thank you, both.” Shulma extricated herself and and wrapped herself in her cloak, half wanting to hide her face in it too. Her friends were only trying to compliment her, but their effusiveness only made her feel more self-conscious.  
  
“I can see why you’re nervous, though,” Rishla mused. “All those tricky incantations on top of exam studying. I suppose that’s why they usually give it to the Firsts to begin with.”  
  
“Yeah,” Yhazi added. “If there’s anything we can do to help…”  
  
“You already are.” Shulma smiled at her friends.  
  
Having collected their belongings and donned their cloaks, the three shamans made their way to the funicular and began their descent. They sat in silence as the clattery ancient vehicle carried them down the slope, until Rishla said:  
  
“There’s someone down there on the platform.”  
  
Shulma, who was fairly certain she knew who it was, found herself reflexively reaching for her pocket mirror and checking that her hair was not too untidy. Yhazi, however, craned over to look.  
  
“Who is that?” she asked, and then, as the car descended further—“Waaaait just a minute! Shulma! Is that your _boyfriend?_”  
  
Shulma glanced down at the funicular platform far below. There indeed was Zeb, pacing calmly on the platform with his hands clasped behind him. She smiled to herself, not quite facing her friend as she replied: “The word is ‘betrothed,’ Yhazi, and his name is Zeb. You know that.”  
  
“Oh, you didn’t tell us he was back!” exclaimed Rishla.  
  
“Well, as you see, he is.”  
  
“Did you set a date yet?”  
  
“Exactly one month after Storms’ End.”  
  
“How wonderful!”  
  
Yhazi was still peering out, and her eyes took on a mischievous glint. “Yes indeed, that is none other than Shulma’s _strrripey_ military beau. Her beau who can’t wait for the day he can finally poke her with his _beau-rifle!_” She laughed raucously and slapped her knee at her own wordplay.  
  
“Oh, stop it, Yhazi! You’re embarrassing her!” Rishla laughed as she put an arm around the profusely blushing Shulma. “Don’t pay Yhazi any attention, Shulma. She’s just—Shulma?”  
  
Shulma didn’t answer. She was now gazing fixedly out the window at her betrothed on the platform below, watching his every motion. He seemed to be reading his commlink; as he did, a worried expression began to darken his face. He put it away, took out a piece of flimsi, scribbled something on it, and left it on one of the benches. Then he rummaged in a different pocket, took something out, and then—just as he had done on that first walk—began to adjust something on the front of his uniform vest. But this time she was high above him, halfway up a mountain from him—and could see exactly what he was doing.  
  
“I _knew _it!” she found herself breathing.  
  
“Knew what?” asked Rishla. “What’s going on?”  
  
“Nothing… nothing… just something he—” She sprang suddenly to her feet. “_Ai’ rrhu’khu’ karabast’aka!_ No! NO!”  
  
“Shulma, what’s wrong?” Yhazi ran up to her.  
  
“He’s _leaving!_”  
  
They all looked out the window. It was true: Zeb was descending the stairs from the platform, making his way toward the footpath that led back in the direction of Lira Zel, the capital. In a sudden motion Shulma wrenched the window open and called out—“Zeb! ZEB!”—but he could not hear. The car was still too high up.  
  
Shulma’s friends watched in astonishment as she scrambled to the back of the steeply tilted car, where the emergency brake lever stood. She gripped its shaft, holding tightly without pulling, and closed her eyes. Yellow sparks began to crackle at her fingertips.  
  
“Oh no!” Yhazi gasped. “Oh no, Shulma, you are _not _about to use Journeyers’ Lightning on this clankety old thing _just to get down there to your—_”  
  
“YES—I—_AM!_”  
  
At that moment a yellow bolt of energy shot from her hands down the brake lever shaft, then along the funicular cable up to the mighty winch that governed it, wreathing it in a golden blaze. Rishla and Yhazi grabbed the hold railings as the car hurtled faster and faster down the slope, finally thudding to a halt against the buffer in the station below.  
  
Grabbing her satchel, Shulma took off at full speed down the station steps, then down the Lira Zel path, not slowing till she could make out Zeb’s form ahead of her. “ZEB!” she shrieked after him. “WAIT!”  
  
He heard her and turned. “Shulma?”  
  
“Zeblove!” She ran to him and crumpled into his arms. “Where are you going?”  
  
“There, steady now, darlin’. Didn’t you see the note I left you on the platform?”  
  
“No… sorry… I didn’t…” She staggered against him, out of breath, her hair loose and falling in her eyes; so much for making sure it was tidy! To steady herself she put a hand to his chest.  
  
“Look, darlin’. Here’s the thing. Somethin’s come up and I have to get back to base. Read the note and it’ll explain everyth—”  
  
He stopped short, noticing that her hand was directly over his Honor Guard medallion and his rank insignia, which she was now eying intently and tracing with her finger. Below the medallion there were now two of the horizontal bars and five of the starlike pips. But most striking of all was the new emblem that gleamed directly above the medallion: a rampant konculor with its teeth bared and with tiny green jewels for eyes. It seemed to spark slightly as she touched it; whether it was because of some mystical property of its own, or from her own intense emotion, she did not know.  
  
“I knew it,” she said, this time deliberately and aloud.  
  
“Knew what? Look, darlin’, I really have to—”  
  
“You _were_ promoted, ai Garazeb.” Her finger sparked on the konculor once again. “Rishla and Yhazi and I saw you messing about with your insignia from up there in the incline car. So there’s really no use hiding it anymore.”  
  
“Aw, that. I guess I wanted it to be a surprise. Should have realized how useless it’d be to keep anything from my razor-sharp beauty.” He stroked her cheek. "But really, darlin’. I gotta—”  
  
“At least tell me what they promoted you to.”  
  
He heaved a huge sigh that sounded very much like one of relief. “Aw, well, if you can’t tell by lookin’, that part still is a surprise.” He winked, and she winked back.  
  
“Fair enough, Zeblove. Now go do what you need to do.” She traced the Triangle of the Child, the Warrior, and the Fool over his heart, around his medallion. “May the Ashla watch over you and all your comrades.”  
  
“You too, love, you too.” He traced the Triangle on her as well, and they shared a parting kiss.

* * *

Adjusting her satchel on her shoulder, Shulma made her way back up the trail to the foot of Mount Straga and the funicular station. It was empty; Rishla and Yhazi had already gone. But Zeb’s note still lay on the bench, which she picked up and read:  
  
_MY DEAREST SHULMA it breaks my heart that I can’t be here to walk with you as usual but I have to get back to base double quick because at one of the practice runs for Storm Solstice there was an injury with one of the bo-rifles in ancient mode and now all of us officers must personally show up to run a full inspection of everything in the arsenal which is a karking pain in the posterior of course and I don’t know how long it all will take and I may not be back for several days but always remember that I’m thinking of you darling with all my love ZEB_  
  
Shulma sank onto the bench as tears welled up in her eyes. Zeb had been in too much of a hurry to mention it earlier, but once again he was being called away from her for an indefinite period of time. And so soon after his return, too—just when her studies were at their most intense and stressful, when she most needed his broad shoulder to lean on.  
  
She sat still for several moments, feeling the anguished clench of her heart and the heat of her tears on her cheeks. Then she stowed the note in her satchel and began her long, lonely walk home.  
  
_to be continued_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Once again, the prophecy being discussed by Shulma and her friends is the one from “Legends of the Lasat,” though all the details about the historical sources, deuterocanonical status, etc. are fanon, and Osthi of Feldspar Falls (of whom you will learn more in chapter four) is a fanon figure. The Seer is likewise a fanon addition, and you are welcome to make whatever speculations you like about how it might (or might not) fit in with the canon version of the prophecy.
> 
> “Ai’ rrhu’khu’ karabast’aka!”: I haven’t decided exactly what this means yet, but the general import is karabast times about ten. :p Uttered by a shaman like Shulma, it has the effect of being part oath, part shamanic invocation.
> 
> What is Shulma doing to the funicular cable? The idea is that it’s akin to what Zeb does to the Ghost in “Legends of the Lasat”: channeling mystical energy in order to get the vehicle to behave in a different way from normal. One difference, though, is that in the episode Zeb uses his bo-rifle for the task, while here Shulma, with her shamanic training, is using her bare hands. The name “Journeyer’s Lightning” for this technique is purely my fanon.
> 
> The Triangle: Devised by Raissa Baiard; used in a similar way to the sign of the cross on Earth.


	3. Chapter 3

There were now less than two weeks until the Storm Solstice. Shulma redoubled the intensity of her studies. Even though by now she had learned the Storm Solstice ritual in its entirety, she still needed regular practice on the intricate chants in order to make sure she retained them. She met regularly with Chava the Wise for coaching and advice, and she knew that in these last weeks other members of the Consistory of Shamans would be coming to vet her progress as well. To all this was of course added her continued studies for the first-degree examination, which was to take place only one week after Storm Solstice.  
  
With both these momentous events so rapidly approaching, these were stressful days for Shulma. She spent her days at the Academy of Shamans shut up in her study chamber, emerging only for her meetings with Chava and her study sessions with Rishla and Yhazi. Even at home in the evenings her studies consumed her. She would sit late into the night at her small writing desk, poring over the ancient writings by lamplight with the holoimage of her beloved Zeb propped before her.  
  
(Her beloved Zeb, who had still not returned! How lonely it was to walk home through the barren canyon with no sweet friend at her side to share her day’s triumphs and trials—with no strong arm to hold, no warm, uniformed shoulder against which to nestle…)  
  
When she finally retired to bed, dark dreams plagued her—dreams of failing in her ritual duty before the Academy and the Royal House on Lasan’s holiest day, of the reproof of the Consistory, of expulsion in disgrace from the Academy. She would awaken in sweats and shivers, feeling almost as weary as she had the night before—and yet she still pushed herself, forced herself to go into the Academy and immerse herself in her studies.  
  
She said nothing of these dreams to her friends or superiors. After all, she told herself, they were only the routine kind of nervous fever-visions that she was prone to anyway; back when she was still an initiate, Chava had dubbed her “little Storm-Dreamer,” a moniker the senior shaman still occasionally used even now. Throughout her time at the Academy, Shulma had been admonished again and again by her teachers that a true shaman of Lasan did not let such trifling visionary fears stand in the way of her studies. It was much easier said than done, of course, but she was determined to persevere as best she could—for her teachers, for her fellow students, for Lasan, for the Ashla.  
  
And for Zeb—her own absent Zeb.

* * *

One day, as Shulma sat in her study chamber perusing the Sixth Tractate of Prophecy, she heard a knock at her door. Chava entered, along with two other eminent-looking senior shamans: a thickset woman with short, wavy gray-purple hair, and a thin, wan man with angular features and a simpering expression. Shulma knelt with her head bowed as they entered.  
  
“As you were, child, as you were.” Chava extended a hand to lift her pupil. “I present Memirra Movshati and Rufozald Marballees, both of the Consistory.” She gestured toward the female shaman, then toward the male, each of whom nodded.  
  
“Pleased to meet Your Reverences.” Shulma’s voice was quiet, but she seized up inside. She knew why these two august visitors had come: to hear her run through the Storm Solstice ceremony from beginning to end, and to evaluate her performance. Moreover, for some reason she couldn’t place, there was something familiar about the thin, smug-faced male shaman—something familiar and discomforting that made the memory of her dark dreams rise all the more quickly to her mind. But just as quickly she quashed them, as befitted a good shaman of Lasan.  
  
Shaman Movshati smiled back at her. “It’s a pleasure to meet you too, Shaman Trilasha.”  
  
“Yes, charmed,” added Shaman Marballees. “I believe you know my son.”  
  
“Y-yes, Your Reverence.” Suddenly Shulma realized where she had seen Shaman Marballees’s weedy physique and smug expression before: on the gawky, anemic young initiate who had tried to woo her a few years earlier—and whom she had refused in no uncertain terms, having already chosen Zeb. And now, it seemed, his father was going to be not only one of her Storm Solstice advisors but also—as a member of the Consistory—one of those administering her First Degree examination. Had not the Ashla already tormented her enough with so many stressful days and troubled nights? Did it now have to add to her unease by placing her fate in the hands of a rejected suitor’s father? _Sovereign spirit of the Galaxy, you’re laughing at your creatures’ hardships, aren’t you?_  
  
Chava’s voice interrupted her thoughts. “You may begin whenever you are ready.”  
  
“Yes, Wise Chava.” Returning the Sixth Tractate of Prophecy to her bookshelf, Shulma replaced it with the thick black chant book—moving as quickly as she could so that the visitors would not see her trembling hands. She removed the holoimage of Zeb from the book and anchored it once again with the betrothal stone. From a narrow closet in one corner of the room she took her staff, which still lacked a focusing stone, and held it with both hands directly before her in both hands in the customary ready position. Then she began.  
  
The minutes wore on and on as the young shaman chanted the ancient, solemn words in their prescribed order, moving forward or backward, raising or striking her staff as the ritual required. All the while she felt the eyes of her three superiors upon her, attentive to her every note, word, and motion. She knew they could see her hands trembling, hear her voice quavering, and they undoubtedly could feel her unease roiling the currents of the Ashla.  
  
It was only toward the midpoint of the ritual, as she stepped forward and pantomimed lifting up the great focusing lens that would be placed at the center of the Royal Lasat Parade Grounds, that Shulma finally hazarded a glance at her spectators. Chava and Shaman Movshati looked cheerful and reassuring—Chava even smiled as she caught her student’s eye—but Shaman Marballees stood with his arms crossed, his eyes shaded, and his mouth pressed in a tight, stern line. Again Shulma felt the darkness of her recent failure-dreams flood over her consciousness: _You’re doing this wrong, Storm-Dreamer. You’re going too fast. Your pronunciation isn’t clear. That long melisma coming up? You’re going to botch it, badly. Your voice is going to crack on that high note. And the Consistory will renounce you publicly, and the sun will hide its face, and the dust will ravage Lasan…_  
  
A sharp pain shot through Shulma’s head. She staggered suddenly, falling against the side of her desk. Shaman Movshati gave a gasp of concern, Shaman Marballees a barely disguised sigh of exasperation. Chava stepped forward with a steadying hand.  
  
“I think you just dropped the lens, child,” she said. “Why don’t you begin again from the third verse of the sun petition sequence?”  
  
“Yes, Wise Chava.” Shulma’s head still ached, but she took a deep breath and began again—a shaman of Lasan must always persevere, after all, as her teachers had always told her. All the while she tried hard to avoid the gaze of Shaman Marballees, which was difficult in the small study chamber. But as she finished the sun petitions, pantomimed replacing the lens in its mounting, and took up her staff again, her eyes fell on the betrothal stone at the corner of her desk, with the holoimage beside it. She fixed them there instead, directing the entire rest of the ritual toward those emblems of her love. This helped calm her somewhat, and she reached the end without any further setbacks. Although the headache persisted, she did her best to pay it no heed.  
  
“Well done, child, well done,” Chava smiled once Shulma had replaced her staff in its closet. Shaman Movshati nodded in agreement. “Beautiful chanting, as always. Just remember not to rush, especially in those sections in the ancient modes, and watch the timing of the staff strokes in passage with the petitions. I think some of them were early.”  
  
“Yes, Wise Chava. My apologies.”  
  
“Not to worry, child. I know you have much occupying you now. Just something for you to bear in mind, is all. Shaman Movshati, Shaman Marballees, is there anything either of you wish to say to the young lady?”  
  
Shaman Movshati spoke first. “Yes. This is all very good, Shaman Trilasha. For now I would echo what Shaman Behanrrocha says about the rushing and the timing of the staff strokes. And there were a few places where your upper accents came out as lower accents, so just be aware of that.”  
  
“Thank you, Your Reverence.”  
  
“And you, Shaman Marballees?” asked Chava.  
  
“Mmm. On the whole, quite satisfactory. You are quite the pretty chanter, my dear. Though the interruption during the sun petition sequence was... regrettable. I sincerely hope there will be nothing of that sort on the holy day itself.”  
  
Shulma lowered her eyes. “There will not be, Your Reverence. As the Ashla lives.”  
  
“Hmmph.” Shaman Marballees cleared his throat and continued. “And with all respect to my esteemed colleagues, I submit that the pacing of the staff strokes in the petition passage might have been more precise had Shaman Trilasha not been... distracted by this pretty trinket of hers.” He indicated the stone on Shulma’s desk. As he did Shulma felt her headache twinge. Fortunately Shaman Movshati spoke up.  
  
“Oh, she didn’t seem distracted to me,” she said. “Perhaps just a little nervous, but who can blame her? Karabast’aka, if _I_ were a Second studying for both the First and the Storm Solstice at the same time—”  
  
“Ah, perhaps you did not see that she was gawking at her shiny toy continually from the last of the sun petitions through the concluding verses? I have expressed my concern to you both before about personal effects in the initiate and second-degree study chambers. This sort of thing is precisely why.”  
  
_Shiny toy?! _Indignation smoldered inside Shulma even as her headache intensified. “I apologize to your Reverence—I just thought that if I had something to focus my attention on—I didn’t know it was—”  
  
“Do not worry about it now, child,” Chava interposed, much to Shulma’s relief. “These are just some things for you to think about as you continue to prepare. We shall return for your final runthrough in two days, in the afternoon. Till then, may the Ashla guard you.”  
  
“Thank you, Wise Chava, Your Reverences.” She bowed her head as Chava and Shaman Movshati filed out of the room. Shaman Marballees, however, hung back.  
  
“That’s your betrothal stone, isn’t it, my dear?” he asked, leaning close to Shulma and chucking her under the chin. She recoiled from his touch, and as she did another burst of pain shot through her head.  
  
“Y-yes, Your Reverence.”  
  
“No wonder, then.” Shaman Marballees’s face twisted into a bitter simper as he turned to go. As he did, he jostled the side of Shulma’s desk, knocking the stone to the floor. It broke into several pieces.  
  
“Ah, karabast upon karabast! I’m _so_ sorry, my dear. What a shame. But that’s what comes of cluttering your study cell with your personal baubles.” He flashed her another smug smile, then left.  
  
Shulma dropped to the ground, gazing in shock on the broken pieces of her betrothal stone. It was not a dream, it was not a vision: the rare, beautiful, red-purple treasure that Zeb had brought her from the Basalt Mountains far to the south—that he had hewn from the rock himself as a sign of his love and promise—now lay in shards on the floor. She tried to gather them up, but her hands shook and sweated so much that it was no use. Bitter tears welled up in her eyes. _Look what a mess you’ve made _now,_ Storm-Dreamer! If you had done better, if your staff strokes had been more precise, if you hadn’t rushed the ancient-mode passages, none of this would have happened and you wouldn’t have gotten a Prominent Member of the Consistory all Righteously Indignant at you… of course, if you hadn’t rebuffed his precious son all those years ago, that would have helped too…_  
  
She managed to grasp one piece of the stone, the largest of the pieces—then doubled over suddenly as the now-familiar blade of pain pierced her consciousness anew…

* * *

_Shulma stood at the center of the Royal Lasat Parade Grounds in all her shamanic finery, holding above her head the great sun-lens, chanting the petitions to the sun that were at the centerpiece of the Storm Solstice ritual. But a noise behind her, of staves clattering arrhythmically on the ground, startled her; her voice cracked as the lens fell from her hands and shattered on the pavement into uncountable millions of pieces…_  
  
_...which swirled in a menacing vortex as they rose into the air, multiplying as they rose, darkening the sky, and then flew in a rageful storm across the face of Lasan._  
  
_And the assembled shamans and soldiers fell on her, beating her with staves and bo-rifles, kicking her and spitting on her and cursing her, grinding her face into the broken shards littering the ground. DOWN WITH STORM-DREAMER! SMASH HER! CRUSH HER! KILL HER!_  
  
Darkness and pain overpowered Shulma, and she collapsed onto the floor, still clutching the piece of stone.

* * *

When Rishla and Yhazi came to Shulma’s chamber later that day for their usual study session, they found her lying unconscious on the floor amid the broken stone pieces. Her skin was cold to the touch, and her extremities twitched occasionally. Her two friends recognized the symptoms as those of vision shock, to which they knew she had always been prone. They also noticed what she was holding in her hand, and glanced from it to the narrow closet where the staff was kept, and then at each other.  
  
“But let’s let her hold onto it a little longer,” said Rishla. “Maybe it'll cheer her up.”  
  
Then, after borrowing one of the Academy’s speeders, they drove her back home to Flowstone Vale, where they took turns watching over her for the rest of the day.  
  
_to be continued_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Rufozald Marballees: Shulma has indeed met his son before, in [The Sad, Sad Story of Porfozald Marballees!](https://archiveofourown.org/works/15844059/chapters/36899055)
> 
> Shaman Behanrrocha: Chava doesn’t have a surname established in canon, so I gave her one.


	4. Chapter 4

That same day, later in the afternoon, Zeb returned.  
  
It had taken much longer than he’d hoped, but the tiresome business with the malfunctioning bo-rifles had finally been sorted out. A full inventory of the arsenal had been conducted, and all active Honor Guard personnel had been required to submit their weaponry for inspection. The unfortunate Guardsman who had suffered the injury was now fully recovered except for a few bacta patches, but there were still piles of datawork to be filed with the proper military authorities. And naturally Zeb had been tasked with overseeing it all, thanks to his new rank and responsibilities…  
  
But now it was all over, thank the Ashla, and Zeb thought he would celebrate by taking Shulma out to a pleasant, romantic dinner in town. If her studies and duties permitted, of course—and he was fairly sure she would _let_ them permit.  
  
So it was, once again, that the young officer paced on the platform at the base of Mount Straga, waiting for the funicular car to arrive with his betrothed. He gave a grunt of impatience as he checked his pocket chrono; usually she was here by now. But the transport had been idle for several minutes.  
  
Then he noticed a female figure running up the pathway toward the station. It wasn’t Shulma but rather her friend Rishla, who was studying with her for the First Degree. She was out of breath as she ran up to him.  
  
“Zeb! That you?”  
  
“Yeah, it’s me. What’s up?”  
  
“Are you looking for Shulma?”  
  
“Aw, how’d you guess?”  
  
Rishla cracked a slight smile at this quip, then bit her lip nervously. “Look, um… she had to go home early.”  
  
“Home?! Early?! What’s going on?!”  
  
“She… she collapsed from vision shock. I was just there… Yhazi’s with her now… we’ve been trying to get her to sleep naturally but she’s too—Hey! Wait!”  
  
But Zeb was already running at full speed down the trail through the valley that led to the village of Flowstone Vale. He did not stop until he reached the threshold of his beloved’s house, where he knocked vigorously on the front door.  
  
After a few moments it opened to reveal a hulking, stern-faced Lasat male of late middle age in miner’s coveralls, who stared at Zeb as if he were a heap of dead giju that had been left on his doorstep. “’Afternoon,” was his terse greeting.  
  
Zeb drew himself up to perfect military posture. “Good afternoon, Master Trilasha.”  
  
“Here to see my daughter, are you, hmmm?”  
  
“Yes, Master Trilasha.”  
  
“She’s indisposed.”  
  
_Aw, karabast._ “I know she’s indisposed, Master Trilasha,” Zeb answered as calmly as he could, though his teeth ground together in frustration. “I just was hoping to… check up on her, you know.”  
  
“Let me see what my wife thinks about that,” came the gruff response. But just as he turned to go back into the house, a bespectacled female Lasat of similar age hurried up beside him.  
  
“Ormgar, what are you doing?! Let the young man in, for Ashla’s sake!”  
  
“But Yokheva! Is it proper for him to see her like this?”  
  
“See her like _what?_ She’s completely wrapped in blankets. And it’ll cheer her up. Here, you come on in.” She extended her hand to Zeb. “I’ll take you up to her.”  
  
Yokheva led Zeb past the nonplussed Ormgar and up a narrow staircase to the attic level of the house, where she knocked on a closed door. It was answered by Yhazi, who gestured quickly for Zeb to enter. Yokheva gave them both a wave and a wink and retreated downstairs.  
  
“All right, so I got her to sleep,” whispered Yhazi. “The trance incense should last maybe… ten more minutes? I’m just gonna do the healing sequence one more time and then—”  
  
“Right.” Zeb pushed past her and made directly for the low but heavily pillowed bed at the other end of the room. There she lay—his Shulma—asleep, wrapped in blankets and shawls, with her long, purple-black hair flowing loose around her. She was turned on her side, facing away from him, with one hand down at her side and the other folded under her pillow. Her face was as serene and lovely as ever, and she looked so beautiful lying there that part of Zeb longed to pounce on her and cover her with fierce kisses. But he knew now was not the time; she was ill and weak, her cheeks were so pale they looked almost gray, and she squirmed fitfully as she slept.  
  
Zeb glanced around, from her to the book-strewn desk across the room, to the twilight outside the window, to Yhazi, who chanted quietly as she chalked mystical symbols on the wall and floor, and back to the sleeping Shulma. It crossed his mind that he had never seen her asleep before, much less even crossed the threshold of her bedroom. He couldn’t help but feel a little nervous, and even a little incredulous: was this humble room beneath the eaves, with its creaky floor and sparse furnishings, really his lovely shaman’s private place of repose? Just his rotten luck that he would be here while she was sick, with her giddiest girlfriend there in the same room and both her parents just downstairs…  
  
Zeb seated himself on the bed and touched the hand that lay at Shulma’s side. It was clenched, cold, and slightly sweaty; he covered it with his own hand in an attempt to warm it. As he did he noticed that it was gripping something. He had just begun to uncurl her fingers to see what it was when he heard a faint “Mmm… Zeblove… is that you?”  
  
“Shulma!” Zeb released her hand and looked over to see her emerald eyes flickering open. He immediately shifted closer and began to put his arms around her. “Oh, Shulma, yes, it’s me… aw karabast, darlin’, you’re shakin’… you’re cold… what’s goin’ on?!”  
  
“Don’t worry about me, dear Garazeb.” She spoke in faint, tired tones as she wriggled gently out of his embrace. “I’ll be all right. I’m just… worn out, is all.”  
  
“Rishla says you collapsed!”  
  
“I did. It’s true.” Her voice seemed even more tremulous. “But all will be well. What about you, darling? Did everything work out all right with the weapons inspections and the—”  
  
“Fine! It’s fine! EVERYTHING’S FINE!” he growled. “Never mind _me!_ What's happened to _you?!_” He tried to embrace her again, and again she shifted away. “What in the name of the Bogan is goin’ on here?! And karabast, _why do you keep pullin’ away from me?!_”  
  
“I’m sorry, love… I guess I’m just still feeling out of sorts… all those late nights of studying must have really done me in… but really, please...”  
  
“Please _what?!_”  
  
“Please don’t be so worried. Yhazi and Rishla have been taking good care of me. Just stay with me while I rest.”  
  
“Shulma…” He placed his hand on her arm; she stirred but did not pull away this time. “Of course I’ll stay with my lady, but…”  
  
“And if you could please move that manly posterior of yours down a little so it’s not on my gown…” Zeb shifted slightly, suddenly wondering about this gown that he couldn’t see for all the blankets and shawls. “Thank you. That’s better.” She turned onto her back, leaning on her pillows in a half-upright position.  
  
Yhazi, meanwhile, had just finished her incantation and was having difficulty stifling giggles as she relit the trance incense, which burned in a small brazier on the windowsill. “I think I’ll leave you two alone now,” she smirked, making for the door. Then suddenly she spun around, took a small bottle from her bag and placed it on the bedside table. “Oh, you know what? I’ll leave the kamphra water. You can have Senior Lieutenant Stripes rub some on you.”  
  
“Dear Yhazi, what would I do without you?” Shulma cracked a wry smile as she called after her friend. “And I’ve already told you, his name is Zeb, and anyway he’s been—” The door closed with a click. “Promoted. Sorry, love. Pay no heed to Yhazi. She’s just being her usual silly self again.”  
  
“’S all right, I’m used to your friends by now. But darlin’—”  
  
“The kamphra water is a good idea, though. Would you rub some on my temples, please? It would feel so nice.”  
  
“All right, fine.” Somewhat gingerly, Zeb opened the bottle, sprinkled a little of its contents onto his fingertips, and began to dab it onto Shulma’s temples, all the while grimacing at the strong smell. “Karabast! This stuff smells like an explosion in a mothball factory!”  
  
“Oh, does it? Because all I can smell right now is you, my mighty bristlecone.”  
  
“Then I’ll come closer, my wild mountain flower.” Zeb did so, despite the strong smell of the kamphra water, and felt his face and breast fill with heat. When she started talking like that, how could he not long to crush her with kisses? Especially since he could now catch her scent too—so herbal, earthy, and sweet all at once… But an Honor Guard must have discipline, after all—so he took a deep breath and continued his ministrations, now rubbing the water on the other side of her forehead. As he did, his gaze happened to wander down toward the hand at her side, which was still clutching something.  
  
“What’s in your hand, darlin’?” he asked.  
  
“Oh! Well—” Shulma shuddered, thrusting her hand quickly under the covers. “It’s—it’s nothing, love. Nothing.”  
  
“It’s not nothin’. I know it’s not nothin’. You’re holdin’ somethin’. What is it?”  
  
“Oh Zeblove…” Her voice trembled again.  
  
“Please.”  
  
“Promise me by the Ashla that you won’t be angry?”  
  
“I… I’ll do my best.”  
  
Shulma chuckled slightly, wryly. “At least you’re honest, my hotheaded love. Fine. Here.”  
  
She took her hand from under the covers and opened it. The shard of red-purple crystal lay there. Replacing the kamphra water on the bedside table, Zeb picked it up for a closer look, and noticed that Shulma’s palm was scratched from where she had clutched it so long and so tightly.  
  
“Karabast… that’s… that’s…”  
  
“Y-yes… our stone… a piece of our stone… Zeb…” She turned away as tears overtook her.  
  
“Shulma!” He grabbed her shoulder and tried to turn her back toward him. “What happened? Tell me!”  
  
“Zeblove, please—” Again she pulled free of his touch. “I can’t—”  
  
“What do you mean, you can’t—” Zeb broke off and sighed. “Shamanic secrecy again, is it?”  
  
“Well, yes… partly…”  
  
“Aw, the Bogan take shamanic secrecy!” Zeb thumped a fist on the bed. “All it’s ever done is make my poor lady miserable and sick!”  
  
“Please, dearest.” Shulma sighed anew at this outburst from her betrothed and placed her hand over his fist. “You said you wouldn’t get angry.”  
  
“Sorry, sorry… but darlin’…” He reached over and brushed the tears from her cheeks. “Isn’t there anything you _can _tell me? It just… makes my blood boil to see you so troubled! And not know why!”  
  
“Well…” She took a deep breath to calm herself, then lifted herself onto her side and curled closer around him. He could now see a bit of a silky golden-yellow bodice. “Do you remember that awful Porfozald? That skinny little fellow who used to—”  
  
“Oh, do I,” grunted Zeb. His face contorted with disgust as he recalled the weedy shaman initiate who some years before had spent his every spare moment tormenting Shulma with his obnoxious, fulsome advances—even after she had made it perfectly clear that she had no interest in him. Zeb had threatened to snap the spindly youth in half like a dry branch if he didn’t leave Shulma alone, and that—as far as he knew—had been the last of it. “If that smarmy li’l Bogan-spawn is givin’ you trouble you again…”  
  
“Oh no, of course not! You already made sure of that, remember, dearest?” She winked at him. “But his father is on the Consistory, and today it was the inscrutable will of the Ashla to send him to my study chamber.”  
  
Zeb’s brow darkened. “And why was he in your study chamber?”  
  
“For an examination. Wise Chava and Shaman Movshati were there, too.” Zeb nodded, and she continued. “Oh, Zeb, it was… the others were fine, but _he_ was so smug and haughty and nasty and nothing I said or did was right—it was terrible—” She swallowed as her tears began to build again. “And then—”  
  
“Aw, karabast, no… _no_…”  
  
“Yes… he knocked my desk so the stone fell off, and—” Suddenly she doubled over. “Oh, Zeblove! Oh, my head hurts!”  
  
“Shulma! Darling!” Zeb caught her in his arms—now noticing and feeling the delicate floral embroidery that covered her gown—and eased her carefully back onto her pillows. Her face had gone gray again and she was trembling violently. And if her head hurt on top of it all—he remembered something she had said to him once about headaches, storm-visions, and vision shock…  
  
And all because of that rotten old Consistory shaman or whatever he was! Zeb could feel anger rising in him even as he stroked Shulma’s hand to calm her. _He _did this to her, the sleemo!  
  
“THAT DESPICABLE OLD CREEP!” Zeb slammed the piece of stone down on the table and jumped to his feet. “HOW _DARE_ HE! I’LL MAKE HIM _PAY FOR THIS!_ I’LL GO UP THERE AND BEAT HIM TO A BLOODY PULP AND THROW HIS _MISERABLE REMAINS FROM THE MOUNTAINTOP_ FOR THE _CONVOREES TO FEAST ON!!_”  
  
“Zeblove…” Shulma’s voice was barely audible. “You’re getting angry again…”  
  
“YOU BETTER BELIEVE I AM!” He rammed his fist into his palm. “NO ONE TREATS MY LADY THAT WAY, _NO ONE!_ I DON’T _CARE_ IF HE’S CONSISTORY OR WHATEVER THE BOGAN HE IS, THIS IS THE _LAST TIME HE’S EVER GONNA—_”  
  
“Hey! What’s going on up here?!” The door flew open. Zeb stopped short as Yhazi strode in, fixing him with a scolding glare. “Her Ashla currents are going absolutely berserk! Like, storm-vision berserk! What have you been _doing_ to her, anyway?” A sudden smirk slid across Yhazi’s face. “No, wait, don’t answer that.”  
  
“I didn’t _do_ anything to her!” Zeb protested. _But I wish I could, just a little_—though there was no way he’d ever admit that to the likes of Yhazi. “She was tellin’ me what happened and it got her kind of… worked up, is all.”  
  
“Yeah, ‘worked up’ is one way of putting it.” Yhazi bent down to feel Shulma’s forehead and cheeks; she was facing away from both Yhazi and Zeb and still trembling visibly. “’Course, Marballees is enough to give anyone storm-visions. But seriously, though. If we don’t calm her currents back down soon, she’s never going to be better in time for Storm Solstice. I really hate to say this, but it might be best if you go now and let her—”  
  
“NO!” Shulma’s hand shot out suddenly to grab Zeb’s wrist. “Please, please let him stay! Won’t you stay with me, love?”  
  
Zeb took her hand in both of his, then turned with a scowl toward Yhazi. “I’ll stay with my lady as long as she wants me to.”  
  
“All right, whatever, you two, but—”  
  
“Maybe you could read to me. Could you do that, darling? With Your Reverence’s permission, of course.” Shulma winked at Yhazi.  
  
“Fine,” Yhazi sighed, rolling her eyes. “Just not, like, the _Boganomicon_ or anything like that, all right?”  
  
“Yhazi, you’re the one who has the _Boganomicon _checked out, not I.”  
  
“Hey, there’s some pretty juicy stuff in there. Just saying, just saying!” Yhazi added hastily as both Zeb and Shulma glared at her. “Anyway, I’ll just refill the trance incense and then leave you two nuzzlecats in peace.”  
  
She went to the window and busied herself with the brazier. Zeb looked with some trepidation over at the numerous books strewn about Shulma’s desk. There had always been something that intimidated him a bit about all those ancient texts and arcane prophecies with which his beloved spent her days—but then again, he was an Honor Guard, and an Honor Guard must face trepidation bravely, mustn’t he? “All right, darlin’, what am I readin’ to you?”  
  
“How about Osthi?”  
  
“Oh, how’d I guess?” laughed Yhazi as she finished with the incense and collected her gear.  
  
“I’ll miss you too, Yhazi,” quipped Shulma languidly as her friend swaggered out of the room. “Anyway, yes, Osthi… _Stronghold of Prophecy… _it’s that little one with the gold cover up at the corner, on top of the big red one… no, the other big red one, next to the lamp… there, that’s it… and could you please read prophecy eighteen... I think it’s on page 137…”  
  
Zeb took the book and sat on the bed once again, and once again Shulma nestled up against him. Turning to the page in question, Zeb began to read, slowly and a little uncertainly:  
  
“‘After all these things, the blade of the Ashla pierced me again, and I saw the Child standing on the dawn-red cliff beneath the stars of the firm… fer… ferment.’”  
  
“Firmament.”  
  
“‘...the stars of the firmament.’” Zeb grimaced slightly, then continued. “‘His face shone with such brightness that it dazzled me; now white was its light, now gold, now all colors at once, ever changing: for he had gone unscathed through the Maze and seen the ancient homeworld with his own eyes, and its glow now shone within them. In the sky above him shone five stars: one blue, two green, two more that were the color of the paintbrush that blooms in the valley’… what’s that? That spiky orange flower we sometimes see along the trail from—”  
  
“Yes, that’s right.”  
  
“So why doesn’t it just say ‘orange’?”  
  
“Because it’s more beautiful this way.”  
  
“Hmph. If you say so.” He cleared his throat and continued. “‘He looked up at those stars and sighed, for they were far from him, gone from him. But still an even deeper and more painful longing assailed his heart, piercing it even as the Ashla’s blade pierced me; and he raised his voice to the stars and cried, “Ah me, wretched woeful wight!”’ _Wight?_ What’s a _wight?_”  
  
“Just keep reading, Zeblove.”  
  
“‘“Ah me, wretched woeful wight-whatever-that-is! For my heart longs with grievous longing for the glory of the ancient homeworld. But I am unworthy, my hands stained with blood and my mouth with foulness; and how can my untaught mind withstand this new knowledge that burns it like molten stone?” But no sooner had he said these things than he heard above him the sound of beautiful singing; and he looked up and saw the Seer standing higher up on the dawn-red cliff, surrounded by a rosy light that rustled like water…’ WHAT?! How can light rustle like water?!”  
  
“Mmm…” was Shulma’s only response. Her eyes were now closed, and her head lolled drowsily to one side. Zeb wondered if she was on the point of falling asleep; he decided to keep reading, in hopes that it might help her stay awake.  
  
“‘And grasping the sheer rock the Child began to climb up to her; and when he reached her she gathered him to her, and said unto him: “Be not troubled, beloved Child of Lasan: you have had many trials and shall have many more, but I shall remain with you and guide you, and gently cleanse you.” And she wrapped him in her cloak so that her rustling light enfolded him; and when she placed her hand upon him, his heart was transverberated by a shock of such ineffable joy that he’—_Transverberated?! Ineffable?! _What the—?! Why can’t these prophecy-types ever say anything in plain and simple language that everyone can understand?!”  
  
There was no response but the sound of soft breathing. Zeb slapped the book closed and thrust it down on the bedside table. “Karabast, first you want me to read to you and then you go and fall asleep before I even—”  
  
He stopped short and leaned over to take a closer look at his beloved. She had indeed drifted off to sleep—but it was a much more peaceful sleep than before. Her only motion was the gentle rise and fall of her chest, and she no longer tossed or twitched. Color—her own natural lavender color—blossomed again in her face.  
  
Zeb couldn’t help but smile. Shulma might have nodded off before the end of the chapter or prophecy or whatever it was—but she was clearly doing much better now, and that was what mattered most. Was it because he had been there beside her? He could not help but swell with a little pride. But some of it had to be her own inner strength, too. He knew his bride-to-be had the perseverance of a true shaman of Lasan, and that neither vision shock nor the stress of her studies nor broken betrothal stones nor nasty old Consistory shamans had the power to keep her down for long. (For a moment he found himself wondering why he no longer felt the urge to pound the living daylights out of that Marballees creep. _But you’ve always had that effect on me, haven’t you, my wild mountain flower?_)  
  
_Perhaps now wouldn’t be a bad time for those kisses,_ he thought to himself. _Well, maybe just one. Mustn’t go full strength just yet, after all…_  
  
Shulma’s head was still turned to the side, away from Zeb. Leaning over and pushing back a fallen lock of her purple-black hair, he planted a kiss on one of her wispy violet cheek-stripes—and lingered there for a few moments, taking in her warmth, her softness, her scent...  
  
“Sleep well, Shulma, love,” he said as he rose at last. Then he arranged the shawls and blankets back around her shoulders, turned out the lamp, and left the room.

* * *

A little later, Yhazi came back upstairs to check on Shulma. All was calm, and she was relieved to see her friend sleeping peacefully and naturally at last. Just for good measure, she chanted one more quick healing prayer.  
  
Then her eyes fell on the piece of red-purple stone on the bedside table. She picked it up and stashed it in her bag, then hurried downstairs to send Rishla a comm message.  
  
_to be continued_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Once again, Osthi of Feldspar Falls and her version of the prophecy of the Three are fanon (see notes to chapter 2 above).
> 
> bristlecone: Raissa Baiard’s fanon, based on the Earth bristlecone pine.
> 
> kamphra water: Fanon. A sort of eau de cologne-like stuff used as a topical tonic, with a somewhat camphorous odor.
> 
> “that little one with the gold cover”: Based on the design of the [Dumbarton Oaks Medieval Library](http://domedieval.org/), published by Harvard University Press.
> 
> “all colors at once, ever changing”: Cf. the light surrounding the Ghost in the climactic scene toward the end of “Legends of the Lasat,” when the hyperdrive suddenly reactivates on its own.
> 
> wight: A legitimate, if somewhat archaic and poetic, English word that simply means “creature.”
> 
> Finally, the rest of the _Ghost_ crew appears in this chapter—can you spot them? ;)


	5. Chapter 5

“_Rrhu’karabast’aka!_”  
  
Shulma sprang out of bed and began dressing as quickly as she could. Sunlight was now pouring relentlessly through her window, and by this time of day she was usually already at the Academy, absorbed in her studies. If she didn't get a move on, she would not be able to get in a full day's worth of studying—nor would she have time to properly rehearse her chants before her second run-through with the Consistory members, which was scheduled for that afternoon. Her reward for resting and recovering was nothing but more stress—all because she had let herself succumb to that stupid vision shock the first time.  
  
But what else could she do? Once dressed, she scurried frantically about the room collecting jewelry, toiletries, and study materials. She was in the process of cramming books from her desk into her satchel when Rishla burst in and took her by the shoulders.  
  
“Shulma! What in the Ashla’s name are you doing?!” She felt Shulma’s wrist for her pulse. “_Akh kara basta,_ your heart’s racing again! You need to calm down or your currents are going to get all worked back up!”  
  
“Rishla, I can’t!” Shulma pulled free of her friend’s grip. “It’s almost 0830 and I’ve lost almost two whole days and I still haven’t gotten to the end of the Sixth Tractate and I need enough time to practice the Storm Solstice ritual before the Consistory shamans visit me this afternoon! And I still need to do my hair!”  
  
“Look, don’t worry about any of that! You’ll be absolutely fine. The main thing now is to keep your currents calm. You don’t want to get knocked out by those storm visions again, do you?”  
  
“No, but—”  
  
“All right, then! Now _sit down._” Rishla guided her friend back to the bed and coaxed her into a sitting position. “I’ll do your hair for you.”  
  
Shulma had no choice but to comply. Rishla was right about her Ashla currents, of course; the last thing she needed now was another attack of vision shock, with both Storm Solstice and the First Degree examination looming so close. She breathed deeply as Rishla began to brush out her hair. It was a strangely relaxing sensation, and it put her in mind of how her mother used to do the same when she was just a kit.  
  
“So,” Rishla said as she began to twine Shulma’s hair at the sides. “Yhazi tells me that Zeb came to visit you the other night.”  
  
“Yes, he did.” Shulma smiled at the memory of that visit:_ his warm closeness as he bent over to rub the kamphra water on her temples..._  
  
“That was so sweet of him.”  
  
“Yes, it was.” _His deep voice reading those beautiful, mystical words to her—even if he did stumble over some of them..._  
  
“You are so blessed to have him, Shulma.” Rishla sighed dreamily as she slid a hairpin into place. “I just hope that someday I’ll have someone to love me like that.”  
  
“You will, Rishla, you will.” Shulma’s eyes wandered to the bedside table, to the book Zeb had been reading to her. It lay at a weirdly cantilevered angle off the edge of the table, with some hairpins and a crushed throat lozenge underneath. No doubt he had slammed it down in a huff, the sweet hothead. But something was missing: the piece of red-purple stone, the remains of the betrothal stone, was no longer there.  
  
Shulma found herself becoming nervous again, even despite the calming effect of Rishla’s ministrations with her hair. She scanned the table and the surrounding area for the shard of stone, but it was nowhere to be seen. Had Zeb taken it with him? Had it fallen on the floor? Was it under something else? That was probably all it was. She drew another deep breath in an attempt to compose her Ashla currents before Rishla could sense that they had been ruffled yet again.  
  
“There! All done!” announced Rishla as she fastened the customary shamanic ring-medallion atop Shulma’s head. “You look lovely, as always. Now let’s get going before it gets too late.”  
  
She helped Shulma to her feet, gave her her satchel from her desk chair, and began nudging her toward the door. Shulma took one more longing glance back at the bedside table. It was a shame to lose the stone, but Rishla was right: there really was no time to hunt for it now—not if she wanted to get any studying done.  
  
They hurried downstairs together. It was quiet in the house; Shulma’s parents had both long since left for work. She felt a pang of sadness at not being able to kiss them goodbye as usual. But, once again, there was no time to linger, and the two young women were soon walking arm in arm through Flowstone Vale to the Mount Straga footpath.  
  
“So,” Rishla asked after they were out of the village. “Is Zeb walking you home again today?”  
  
“He always does.” Shulma felt warmth in her face as she thought ahead to her favorite time of the day: _the leisurely stroll amid the flower-studded slopes, leaning on the shoulder of her betrothed, with the afternoon sun pouring down..._  
  
“I guess his commanding officers don’t mind?”  
  
“I guess not.”  
  
“Oh, it’s _so_ lovely that he does that!”  
  
“Yes, but Rishla…”  
  
“He loves you _so much!_”  
  
“Rishla…”  
  
“What?”  
  
“You have a lot to say about Zeb this morning. What is this all about?”  
  
“_Well…_” Rishla smirked slightly as she drew the word out. “When I came to relieve Yhazi the other night, she, er, gave me some advice.”  
  
“Oh, did she?” Shulma cocked her head. She was fairly sure she knew where this was leading.  
  
“Yes. ‘All right, Rishla,’ she said to me, ‘If her currents get worked up again, just start talking to her about her stripey soldierboy. It’ll calm her right down.’” Rishla turned with an even bigger smirk toward her friend. “And what do you know, it worked, if I do say so myself!”  
  
_Stripey soldierboy?! _Shulma blushed and turned away, feeling her face grow warm through the tips of her ears—and then, despite herself, burst out laughing. Dear old Yhazi! That was just the sort of thing she _would _say, wasn’t it?  
  
“Yes, it worked,” she smiled, once her laughter had died down. “Each time.”

Once again Shulma spent the day confined in her study chamber, trying desperately to squeeze three days’ worth of studying, reading, and chanting into one. In order to achieve this, she had bowed out of the day’s study session with Rishla and Yhazi (to which Rishla had heartily agreed, as it allowed her to go home and sleep after her long vigil at Shulma’s bedside the night before). Shulma still occasionally felt flickersing storm vision sensations as she crammed her way through the ancient texts, and once in a while her subconscious would whisper the now-familiar little failure-taunts: _You shouldn’t have gone home and slept, you lazy thing! What were you thinking? _But most of the time she was able to dispel them with a few deep breaths, and she felt much calmer now—all thanks to the tender care of Rishla, Yhazi, and of course Zeb.  
  
It was now the middle of the afternoon, almost time for the meeting with Chava and the Consistory shamans. This time, Shulma would be meeting them outside on the terrace of the Academy, where there would be much more space to practice the Storm Solstice ritual. She was in the process of skimming over the chants in the large black compendium when she heard a knock at the door.  
  
“Come in.”  
  
Shulma gasped with surprise as Chava herself entered her cell and sat beside her. “Well! How is my Storm-Dreamer feeling this fine day?”  
  
“I am very well, thank you, Wise Chava.”  
  
“Good, good! Your hand, please?” asked Chava, extending her own hand. Shulma laid her hand in Chava’s as the elder shaman felt her pulse. Next Chava placed two fingers gently on Shulma’s temple, then at the base of her ear. “Oh yes, all much better indeed. And the Ashla is moving much more calmly through you, I can tell. This is very, very good.”  
  
“Shamans Bontai and Khefastu took very good care of me, Wise Chava. I couldn’t have recovered so quickly without them.”  
  
“They are dear and true friends indeed,” Chava replied. “But I think there was someone else who helped as well… wasn’t there?” She winked.  
  
Shulma winked playfully back. “Yes, Mama and Papa were lovely, too.”  
  
“I think you know whom I mean, child.”  
  
“Of course.” Shulma could not hold back a sigh as she glanced toward the corner of the desk where Zeb’s picture lay, no longer anchored by the beautiful red-purple crystal. Chava placed a comforting hand over hers.  
  
“Oh, child, child. I am so sorry about what happened the other day. Shamans Bontai and Khefastu told me everything and showed me the pieces… what’s wrong, dear one?” she asked, noticing Shulma’s averted gaze.  
  
“I’m so ashamed, Wise Chava… it was such—such a trivial thing and I shouldn’t have let it affect me so much… but I let my silly weakness overpower me and because of it I’ve lost two whole days of preparation… it was unworthy of a shaman of Lasan, and I—”  
  
“No, child! Do not speak so! How could you be wrong to react as you did? If your storm-currents were stirred, was it not because the tenderest and noblest of feelings was stirring them? And you were certainly not the one acting in a manner unworthy of a shaman of Lasan. By the Ashla, no.” Chava spoke these words through clenched teeth, gazing straight ahead of her, and Shulma thought for a moment she could see a sparklike yellow glint in her teacher’s eyes—but it disappeared just as suddenly. “Now, why don’t you get your things, and we’ll go out to the terrace and meet the others.”  
  
“Yes, Wise Chava.” Shulma packed the large black chant book into her satchel, along with a few others from her shelf, then went to the narrow corner closet to fetch her staff. Chava’s words had brought to mind yet another thing she still had to do: take her staff to the foundry to be altered for a focusing stone in time for Storm Solstice. Still so much to do, still so much to remember to do! Perhaps she would go there after her meeting with the elder shamans—unless, of course, she came down with another attack of vision shock courtesy of that horrible Shaman Marballees...  
  
Having finished packing her books, she went to the closet to retrieve her staff. She gasped at what she saw when she opened the door.  
  
“What is it, child?”  
  
“Look at this, Wise Chava, look!”  
  
The elder shaman came over to look. The golden ring-medallion that topped the staff was no longer empty, as was customary for the staff of an initiate or Second. Mounted inside it was the piece of red-purple crystal from her betrothal stone. Shulma removed the staff to look at it more closely; the gold-plated mounting prongs had been carefully and securely installed, and the dim glow and barely perceptible hum that now emanated from the crystal attested that it was active and resonant with the currents of the Ashla. A note was taped to the back wall of the closet, and a smile brightened Shulma’s face as she read it:  
  
_Hi Shulma! How do you like your new focusing stone? We thought you might find it a little familiar… Hope you’re feeling all better now. Much love, Rishla_  
  
_Hey lady. Now you can think of your dreamy Lt. Beau-Rifle Zeb when you summon the light of the Ashla during Storm Solstice. Pretty sweet, huh? Love, Yhazi_  
  
“Ah, they did it, they did it!” Chava’s voice burst in on Shulma’s happy reverie. “They asked me for permission first, of course. Now, there were some High Shamans back in the olden days who would have found such a thing slightly… irregular, you know. But how could I say no, hmm? Such loving friends! Besides, you know, kreposkolite is one of the best materials there is for holding and concentrating the sacred light. Well, child, now you’ll be able to make some proper sparks during the sun petition sequence, won’t you! Let’s head outside, shall we?”  
  
_Oh, kreposkolite isn’t the only reason this stone is full of light…_ “Yes, certainly, Wise Chava,” smiled Shulma in reply, and teacher and student walked together through the halls of the Academy toward the terrace.  
  
“Ah, there you are, Wise Chava!”  
  
No sooner had they reached the door leading outside than Shaman Marballees strutted up to them. Once again Shulma felt a twinge in her head. “I shall be seeing you and your songbird momentarily.”  
  
Chava stopped and fixed him with a stiff glare, saying nothing. Once again Shulma noticed the yellow sparks in her eyes. “Go outside, child,” Chava instructed her student without turning to look at her. “I won’t be long.”  
  
“Yes, Wise Chava.” Shulma obeyed, turning back only briefly to see the tall, spindly Shaman Marballees cowering under the glare of the diminutive Chava like a full-grown gravelope cornered by a konculor cub. _The Ashla is good and just indeed,_ thought the younger shaman to herself, gloating inwardly as she headed outside.  
  
The great, round terrace of the Academy of Shamans faced west, directly into the afternoon sun; its striated, pink-gray flagstones seemed to glow slightly in the sunlight. No one else was there yet. Shulma positioned herself near the terrace’s center, looking out over the mountains and holding her staff before her in the ready position. After taking a few centering breaths, she struck it on the ground.  
  
At once golden light coursed upward from her hands through the wooden shaft, crackled in a sparkling corona around the focusing stone, shot up into the air in a lambent, orange-gold blaze—and disappeared. Seized with awe, she struck the staff again; the same thing happened. A third time—and this time she thrust the blazing staff skyward, raising her voice in one of the climactic proclamations of the sun petition sequence:  
  
_Rejoice, O Lasan, in the light of the Ashla that now floods you! Exult in the sovereign radiance that courses through your crust to your very core! How lovely in its coming, how glorious in its going is the effulgent splendor that now fills—_  
  
She broke off and lowered her staff as she realized she was no longer alone. Shaman Movshati now stood on the terrace, watching her. Near her stood a second senior shaman—not Shaman Marballees but a gentle-faced male in eyeglasses who was also watching. And bustling up between them came Chava herself.  
  
“Carry on, child, carry on!” she exclaimed, noticing Shulma’s look of astonishment. “Don’t mind us!”

* * *

“All right, out with it, darlin’,” Zeb said later that afternoon as he took Shulma in his striped, muscular arms on the Mount Straga funicular platform. “Just the other day you were all sick and miserable in bed, today you’re practically walkin’ on the clouds.”  
  
“Yes?” Shulma beamed as she reached up to stroke his beard. “And?”  
  
“So what’s goin’ on, hmm? Not that it’s a bad thing my lady’s so happy…”  
  
“Just have patience, my love. All will be revealed at the Storm Solstice.”  
  
“Shamanic karkin’ secrecy again, eh?” He said it with a slight chuckle as he twirled a lock of her long, dark hair around his finger.  
  
“Maybe yes, maybe no.” She shrugged. “But you are one to talk about secrecy, ai Garazeb.” Her fingers caressed his konculor insignia, once again sending up little golden sparks.  
  
“Er… uh… well… heh heh.” He let her hair go and turned aside, smiling sheepishly. “That’ll be revealed at the Storm Solstice too.”  
  
“All right, then. When the holy day comes, I shall look for you when the valiant ranks of the Honor Guard are assembled on the parade grounds. It will not be difficult to find my bristlecone among the shrubs.”  
  
“Aw, I know I’ll spot my prongbok doe among the goats…” Zeb drew her closer so that his beard brushed her face. “Those eyes…”  
  
“Zeblove…”  
  
“That hair…” Closer…  
  
“Oh Zeblove!”  
  
“Those _strrripes!_” He pressed her to himself in a fiery kiss, and they stood there, wrapped in each other’s arm-stripes, for several moments beneath the lambent Lasan sun.  
  
_to be continued_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> kreposkolite: A fanon gemstone, introduced in [Romance among the Stones](https://archiveofourown.org/works/19965346). The name is loosely based on the Latin word crepusculum, “twilight,” after its sunset-like red-purple color.
> 
> Bontai, Khefastu: Both surnames have Italian origins: Rishla’s from the Italian word “bontà,” meaning “goodness,” and Yhazi’s from “che fastu?,” which means “what are you doing?” in the Venetian dialect of the 1500s (and I think some other modern-day Italian regional dialects, too).
> 
> “Rejoice, O Lasan…”: Shulma’s invocation borrows from the Exultet (the Easter Vigil proclamation in the traditional Western Christian liturgy) and the Hebrew hymn [El adon al kol ha-ma‘asim](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/El_Adon) (from the Jewish liturgy for Sabbath morning).


	6. Chapter 6

The day—the holy day of the Storm Solstice—dawned in purple-golden splendor over the Lira Zel cliff country, bathing the rocks in mirror-like light.  
  
In his quarters at the Honor Guard base, the young officer rose and washed. Carefully he combed and trimmed his beard and jaw fringe, then donned his most formal ceremonial uniform and affixed his medallion and rank insignia, all polished to sparkling, in the proper order and alignment over his heart. Then he strapped on his full ceremonial armor: his chest and shoulder armor with their gleaming regalia and rank studs, his arm bracers, his knee and shin guards, his belt with the Honor Guard seal on its buckle. For the first time ever he draped the long, wine-colored cape over his shoulders and secured it. Last of all, he took down his bo-rifle, checked it over as usual (it too had already been carefully polished and cleaned), and slung it on his back before heading out to give his men (_his _men!) their instructions for the holy day.  
  
Some distance away, in the attic of the cottage in Flowstone Vale, the young shaman rose and washed. She decked herself in all her mystical finery: the gown of crimson brocade with threads of purple and gold, the embroidered cloak of crimson velvet, the finely worked golden eardrops, necklaces, cuffs, and anklets with their tiny, sparkling colored gems. She brushed out her long, dark hair, then plaited and pinned it in a formal style, finally fastening her ring-medallion at her forehead. From a drawer in her desk she took the velvet pouch containing her focusing stone; she drew out the radiant red-purple crystal and pressed it lovingly to her lips before ensconcing it in her bodice, close to her heart. Finally, taking her staff from where it leaned in the corner of the room—she had taken it home from the academy the day before—she headed downstairs and out the door, where her mother was waiting with the speeder.

* * *

The midmorning sun shone high and clear over the Royal Lasat Parade Grounds. A crowd of spectators was gathered at the edge of the grounds, behind barriers, to watch the Storm Solstice ceremony that would soon be taking place. A special platform set up on a cordoned-off corner of the grounds held officials, magistrates, retired Honor Guard officers, and other honored guests. On the festooned central terrace of the Royal Palace sat the royal family of Lasan: Queen Ingruna II Argorfiros and Prince Consort Mardovek, along with the rest of their family: the Crown Prince Rendoval and his wife, then the Prince-Royal Rendovek and the Princesses-Royal Idavri and Laitha. Below, on the parade grounds, the combined ranks of the Lasan High Honor Guard stood at attention, and with a barked word of command, the parade began.  
  
First came the captain and his closest lieutenants, in their full regalia. Then came the music corps, their shawms and slide-horns held high and their tasselled drumsticks twirling. Next marched legions of Guards in perfect formation, sunlight glinting on their bronze-green armor, colorful regimental banners flapping and snapping in the brisk summer breeze. Above them all soared the strains of a proud, ancient war march, till at last the procession halted before the royal palace’s central terrace.  
  
At a command from the captain, the Guards arranged themselves into a partially staggered line, and the captain and his lieutenants, still ranged in front of them, turned to face the royal family. With bowed heads the captain, then his lieutenants, then all the assembled Guards saluted the royal family in the traditional hand-over-fist salute. The queen, then her husband, then the other members of their family returned the gesture. One drum—the commander of the drum corps—struck up a brisk roll; the captain and his honor detail marched to one end of the column of Guards, where the captain called out an order: “Bo’-ra’ prestá’i!” At this, all the assembled Guards drew their bo-rifles and held them vertically against their right shoulders.  
  
“Bo’-ra’ rová’i!” _Click—clack—swish:_ the Guards unfolded their weapons into rifle mode and held them diagonally across their bodies. “Bo’-ra’ bo’atá’i!”—then into staff mode. “Bo’-ra’ kov’damá’i!”—then, with a final ratcheting _clack,_ into the full length of the ancient ceremonial mode. The drum continued its roll as the captain walked down the line of troops to inspect them and their weapons, his wine-colored cape billowing behind him. Once finished, the captain called one more command—“Trrep’kú!”—upon which the lieutenants marched over to rejoin him, and the Guards reassembled into an angled phalanx on the west side of the parade grounds. All of them, simultaneously, turned to face eastward, and the drum roll stopped.  
  
For several moments all was quiet. All present noticed that the sun was visibly higher in the sky.  
  
Then another sound arose: the sound of distant, dulcet chanting, by mostly feminine voices, occasionally punctuated by the starlike _ting_ of miniature cymbals. The shamans of the Academy began to process onto the parade grounds from the east, two by two. First came the initiates, guiding a festooned hoversled holding the great ceremonial sun-lens and its mounting. This they set up in the center of the grounds, then retired with the hoversled to one side. After them came the shamans of the first and second degree, clad in rich, colorful fabrics, with ring-medallions glinting in the hair of the females and on the tunic collars of the males. They all carried Ashla staves; those at the front of the line also carried crackling colored torches, and those behind them brought various other objects: incense burners, small perfume jars, flowers, colorful stones, or the small cymbals that accompanied the singing. The torch bearers arranged themselves on either side of the lens. Those behind them, still chanting, came forward two by two and laid their various offerings on the ground around the base of the mounting, then retired to the side to join the initiates in a semicircular formation, opposite the Honor Guard.  
  
_The captain of the Honor Guard resisted the temptation to crane his neck to take a closer look at the shamans, as though looking for someone…_  
  
After all the first- and second-degree shamans had entered, the torch bearers joined them in their formation. As the captain of the Guard called an order, causing his Guards to turn as one to face the great front doors of the palace, the shamanic voices swelled in their chant’s final chorus, and the palace doors swung open. The members of the Consistory—the eight Revered Masters who governed the Academy of Shamans and guided the spiritual welfare of all Lasan—processed solemnly onto the grounds, their own staves held before them and their own ring-medallions gleaming. Their leader, Chava Merkavitou Behanrrocha the Wise, came last, wearing robes of many shades of green and small jewels scattered throughout her hair. As she passed the assembled ranks of guards and shamans, she traced signs of the Triangle above them in blessing. By the time the chant came to its melodious close, the sun was even higher.  
  
_All the while the captain’s eyes—and only his eyes—were scanning the group of shamans before him. Huh, that’s odd, she’s got to be there somewhere..._  
  
_And then—_  
  
All was quiet on the parade grounds as a single figure emerged from the palace doorway: a female shaman, clad in flowing crimson and holding her staff at the ready. She took its focusing stone from the bodice of her dress and fixed it in its mounting atop the staff. As she struck the staff on the ground, a sparking golden blaze shot upward from its base, crackled around its stone, then flew upward to join the brightness of the sunlit air—and in that same moment she began her chant.  
  
_The captain felt his heart jump beneath his medallion and insignia. He knew that voice..._  
  
It was the ancient Storm Solstice invocation chant: arcane, solemn words that surged and swirled in equally arcane tones. The shaman—the presider of the Storm Solstice ritual—now stepped forward, now back, now to one side or the other as she performed the ritual welcoming the storm-season sun. Now she raised her staff so that its red gem caught the sunlight, now she struck it on the ground, which seemed almost to shake, thunder-like, each time the golden blaze went up. Every motion, every note, every word came in its prescribed order; there was no other sound.  
  
As the presider reached the great sun-lens, another shaman came alongside her, to whom she handed her staff before lifting the lens over her head to catch the sun’s gleam. Here the melody and modality of her chant shifted into that of the sun petition sequence: solemn prayers for the Ashla’s protection over Lasan during the coming dust season, and blessings for the lens that would soon send Lasan’s own light up to unite with that of its sun. While chanting the fourth and last of the petitions, she replaced the lens in its mounting, this time tilted partially upward, and took up her staff again. She struck it and raised it overhead as both its golden sparks and her climactic refrain soared heavenward:  
  
“Rejoice, O Lasan, in the light of the Ashla that now floods you! Exult in the sovereign radiance that courses through your crust to your very core! How lovely in its coming, how glorious in its going is the effulgent splendor that now fills all things. O shield your beloved, spirit beyond all spirits, from the violence of the dust!”  
  
The sun was higher still, almost at its apex in the sky.  
  
_She was only in the captain’s peripheral vision now, and her side was to him. But as she lifted the lens he noticed the swirling arm stripes that were more beautiful than any of the jewels on her hair, neck, or wrists. And he really knew that voice..._  
  
A cymbal tinged. An order rang across the field: “Llasa prestá’i!” The Honor Guards all raised their fully unfolded bo-rifles, the shamans their staves. Both phalanxes, shamans and guards, turned to face the lens and each other. Captain faced presider, bo-rifle faced Ashla staff in fullness of power and beauty beneath the Lasan sun...  
  
_“Karabast,” breathed Zeb in astonishment, all military discipline suspended. There she was: his own wild mountain flower, the chosen of the shamans in all her finery. She, and no one else, was Lasan’s ambassador before the Ashla at the turning of the dust season, Lasan’s lovely voice before its sovereign spirit._  
  
_“Rrhu’kara—” Shulma gasped and staggered backward. There he was: her own mighty bristlecone, now captain of the Lasan High Honor Guard, in all the magnificence of his rank, from his flowing cape to the little jewel-eyed konculor on his breast. He, and no one else, was Lasan’s strong protector and stalwart champion, defender against all enemies present and to come..._  
  
_A twinge shot through her head, causing her to stagger again. She did not know why: simply because he was near?_  
  
Now the sun was directly overhead.  
  
_And she remembered that she was supposed to give the next command..._  
  
“Llasa haká’i!” she sang out, raising her staff. All the guards struck their bo-rifles, all the shamans their staves, all directing them toward the great lens. The parade ground became a sea of light as a thousand golden lightnings coursed across it toward the lens, which threw them sunward in a fiery column. The sun blazed forth in a lambent fireball of many colors, sign of the Ashla’s favor and protection. In that moment, all Lasan was luminous, all Lasan was light.  
  
And in the midst of it all, the light of two leaf-green eyes faced the light of two emerald green eyes, two staves joined their energy, two hearts beat as one.  
  
They were the light of Lasan.

* * *

They did not get to see each other again until much later. After the ceremony was complete, Zeb had retired to base with the rest of the Honor Guard, and as the new captain his time had been consumed with professional responsibilities, from datawork and post-ceremony teardown to meetings with both his lieutenants and members of the ministry for military affairs. Shulma, meanwhile, had gone with her fellow shamans to visit the sick and bedridden in the medcenters and healing houses of Lira Zel, and to distribute the offerings from the ceremony—the flowers, stones, perfume, incense, and even some pairs of the miniature cymbals—to them as gifts. That evening, when a festive reception was held in the ballroom of the royal palace for the principal participants in the ceremony—shamans and military together—both Zeb and Shulma had been obliged to spend most of the time accepting congratulations and engaging in small talk, Zeb in particular having to continue professional conversations begun earlier that day with ministry officials.  
  
But now, as the festivities were finally winding down, captain and shaman had stolen out to the great lakeside terrace for a quiet walk arm in arm. It was dusk, and the sinking sun cast red-purple twilight hues over the lake and the distant cliffs.  
  
“Well, darlin’,” Zeb began, “er… now you know.”  
  
“Yes, now I do.” Shulma reached over to touch his rank pips and the jewel-eyed konculor insignia; tiny sparks went up once again from her touch.  
  
“I wanted it to be a special surprise for you.”  
  
“And it was a beautiful surprise. My Zeblove. Captain of the Honor Guard, protector of Lasan.” Shulma gestured grandiosely with one hand. “‘Savior of the remnant,’ as the old text says.”  
  
“Er, wha...?!” Zeb staggered back slightly. “‘Savior of the remnant’? What remnant? They never told me that was part of the job description!”  
  
“Oh, it’s from one of the anonymous later seers,” Shulma laughed. “It describes a Guard captain from later times who will be called ‘the savior of the remnant.’ A well-known mystery among scholars; no one is really sure what it means. Probably just a classic case of text corruption.”  
  
“Er… if y’say so.”  
  
Shulma smiled and nuzzled his shoulder at this very characteristic response, and they walked on in silence for a few moments. The sun was lower now, its glow a deeper purple-red, and there was a hint of a dusty scent in the slight breeze that blew.  
  
“Well, whatever it may mean, I am certain is no one more worthy to be it than my mighty bristlecone.” Shulma leaned closer. “Oh, dearest, to see you up there—my magnificent warrior, leading all the legions of Lasan, bo-rifle at the ready in the manner of the ancients—how did it feel?”  
  
“Aw, I don’t really know… it was all kind of a blur, and it’s still so new… I didn’t expect it in a million dust seasons, y’know. I mean, we knew Porifiros had retired and all, but other than that…” Zeb trailed off and looked absently out over the lake to the horizon, where only a sliver of purple light was left. “But there’s one thing I do know…”  
  
“Yes?”  
  
“I couldn’t’ve stood opposite a lovelier Storm Solstice shaman than my own wild mountain flower.” He leaned over to kiss her cheek. “And now _I _know what all that shamanic secrecy was about.”  
  
“Yes, of course. But, oh Zeblove, I was so nervous. I was shaking the whole time…”  
  
“Aw, darlin’, you were wonderful, just wonderful. Didn’t look nervous at all. All of it was just so beautiful—all the rituals and chantin’—and _you _were so beautiful, I just wanted t’—” He broke off, stopped, and faced her, holding her hands. “To take you in my arms and—and _kiss_ you. Right there on the parade grounds in front of everyone.”  
  
“Ah, well, my mighty captain, my Garazeb…” Shulma looped one arm around his neck, then the other as she leaned up to brush his fringe with her lips. “There’s always now.”  
  
“Aw, karabast…” Zeb’s voice was gruff as he slid strong arms around her. “Aw, Shulma, yeah… yeah, there is…”  
  
And there, even in the twilight shadows, all Lasan was illumined by their kiss.  
  
**the end**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Queen Ingruna II Argorfiros et al.: All the members of the Lasat royal family named here are fanon.
> 
> Some etymological notes on the drill commands:  
“Bo’-ra’”: contraction of “bo-rifle” (of course).  
“prestá’i”: various Romance-language words for “ready,” “quick,” “prepared” (since this is Lasat for “present arms”).  
“rová’i”: Modern Hebrew _roveh_, “rifle.”  
“bo’atá’i”: bo, as in the staff.  
“kov’damá’i”: The Hebrew root k-d-m, denoting concepts like “ancient,” “yore,” “origin,” and similar (also, _kedmah_ is “east,” as in, the origin of the rising sun). The v is my addition.  
“haká’i”: The Hebrew root h-k-h, “to strike.”
> 
> “Rejoice, O Lasan!”: An expansion on the prayer Shulma chants in chapter 5 above.


End file.
